


Like Coming Home

by nokomisfics



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Childhood Friends, M/M, Other, alternate universe: childhood friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokomisfics/pseuds/nokomisfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has known Sherlock since they were five and zero, fifteen and three, twenty-two and seventeen, and John knows he wants to spend the rest of his life with the other boy. (Not including wedding rings, of course, because John Watson is not gay.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Coming Home

Shuffle. Blink. Smile. Shuffle.

It began like this, slow and tentative, a two-letter word here and there. "Hi." "Hey." "How are you?" "Good. And you?" "Likewise."

Not the conversation two young boys should be having, but conversation no less. They learnt everything about each other through their mothers and their siblings and the odd photo album left abandoned on the stairs. They knew of each other's hobbies through the other's boasting father. They could recognize each other's voices after seven years of forcibly spending summer together, for the sake of high school friendships and memories that were sure to be of value, for generations to come, two families touching but never linking, never _becoming._

The summer John turned five, Aunt Violet Holmes invited them to her family's cabin as she had been doing ever since before John was born. Unlike last summer, however, this time her belly wasn't swollen - she had lost a _lot_ of weight, in fact - and all of a sudden she didn't have just one baby boy but two!

John remembered looking at Sherlock Holmes for the very first time. A tuft of wild, curly black hair, small fingers reaching out and gripping, groping, snapping, slapping, a little wet mouth gurgling and wry, blue eyes that were so blue and so transparent John couldn't decipher how the baby could see out of them. Mycroft Holmes - the only Holmes boy John was used to - had pushed him aside, run to the cradle and had declared, loudly, "He's _my_ brother."

John didn't have a brother. John had a sister, Harriet, whom he began calling Harry before anyone else did. Harry was rash and bold and outgoing, and while she always played with John and never left him alone, she never made for much company either. Harry was always interested in hanging out with the other girls in her grade, and when John was five and Harry was ten, she was constantly on the phone talking to whatshername from Grade School.

John didn't have friends, either. He was far too shy and introverted, and while his teacher knew behind the dry exterior was an exceptionally bright student, precious few boys and girls in kindergarten have the time and patience to break through John Watson's shell.

And Mycroft Holmes, _Mycroft_ , he scared John. John was terrified of the boy who was but his age and yet so smart, with all those long words coming out of his mouth. John was always in awe of how the boy _knew_ things without being told, and yet something about that unending knowledge kept John at bay, always hovering around Mycroft but forever out of reach, _just_ by an inch, keeping his distance. "He'll either become a genius or a sociopath," his mother would tell him every summer night at the Holmes' cabin, tucking him in, turning off the light.

^-v-^-v-^

It became apparent the summer John turned twelve, that Mycroft was destined to become the genius. Sherlock Holmes, however, was an entirely different case.

That was the summer John spent _watching._ He watched how Sherlock followed their mothers around the house, butting in and asking the silliest questions - why is the sky sometimes dark and sometimes light? why do people cry when someone dies? why hasn't daddy come home yet - it's been two years! - questions that John never thought of asking. And he got answers that John thought he'd eventually get - the earth revolves around the son, my darling, and tears leak out when your heart bleeds, as for your father, oh! the chicken's nearly done, set the table please?

John was taken by a different kind of awe when it came to Sherlock. Sherlock, who tried acting so high and mighty with his talk about terminal velocity - he was _seven_ \- but still followed Mycroft around like a pecking bird, struggling so hard to prove himself to his genius of a brother, caring very deep down that nobody liked him and probably nobody ever would.

And John? Sherlock never paid much attention to John. When Mycroft was away, Sherlock would notice how John looked up war heroes and types of gunpowder and would give the uniformed men at the cafe sneaky looks of envy, but Sherlock would say very little.

And that, John concluded that summer, was the difference between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft showed off his special deduction powers, he'd make a big deal out of knowing something about you before you did, but Sherlock would gather up all the information in the mind cottage in his head, and when you were about to ground him, he'd think up an ultimatum and walk away, scotch free, with a threat or two dangling above your head.

Sherlock Holmes, it turned out, was the one doomed to become a sociopath.

=._.=._.+._.+._.

John was fifteen and Sherlock was ten when John realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the latter.

In the most platonic sense, not inclusive of any wedding rings because John was _not_ gay. Not like his sister, who had come out rather publicly at Christmas dinner with a girl on each of her arms.  John was the only one who _wasn't_ surprised and _didn't_ spit out his eggnog in utter horror. John was also now the only one Harry - now twenty and big enough to make her own decisions - still kept in touch with.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock, simply because Sherlock was John's first and - dare he say it - only friend. Sherlock was everything John had ever hoped to find in a companion: quiet, intelligent, sarcastic, crude with humour and downright honest. Sherlock made John grin and chortle and brood and _think_ , for days together, about the silliest of things. Sherlock forgot the basics to remember the rare and John would be damned if he didn't find the way the other boy functioned appealing as hell.

This was the summer the two boys had their first actual conversation.

 Shuffle. Blink. Smile. Shuffle.

John was on the roof, leaning against the rusty tiles, looking up at the sun and wondering if it was alive. A pebble was tossed up and landed just an inch to the right, and curious, John peeked over the edge.

Sherlock was staring up at him, a smirk on his face. "I figured you'd look down if I did that!" he called.

John grinned - he couldn't help himself. "What d'ya want, lad?" he asked, for it was compulsory to add 'lad' at the end when he was talking to Sherlock, to remind himself that the boy was just ten and couldn't possibly _want_ to be his friend.

"Thought I'd go for a stroll," Sherlock said, softer now, perhaps so that nobody else would hear. John wondered why he was telling him, unless... "Would you like to join me?" Ah.

"I'd rather lie here and stare at the sun," admitted John, keeping his voice dull as well. Sherlock studied him for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed as he mulled things over, and then he shrugged in an oh-what-the-hell gesture.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all. There's a ladder on the other side."

At first it was awkward. Shuffle. Blink. Smile. Shuffle. Sherlock settled down next to John on the rusty tiles, his legs stretched out in front of him while John gripped his knees to his chest. In an absurd alternate universe it felt like Sherlock was the elder one and John was the not quite adept sidekick. To stop himself from feeling insufficient again, John kept his eyes trained on the sun.

"What are you thinking?" asked Sherlock, his voice laced with curiosity.

"I'm wondering if the sun is alive," answered John honestly.

"Well, it can't possibly be, seeing as it's a star and all stars are just burning balls of gas."

"Technically, it's impossible," John admitted. "But it's something people could, say, write a book about. It could be fictionally real."

"That's an oxymoron."

_You're an oxymoron._

"I heard that."

John's eyes widened. "How could you have _possibly_ \- "

"Mum was calling, heard her call, got to go." Sherlock was brisk, tipped his checkered cap in farewell and thumped John's shoulder in what could only be described as a friendly gesture.

Then in a swirl of fancy coat and the sound of a ten-year-old slipping and sliding down rusty roof tiles, he was gone.

,_._,_._:_._:_.

There were no summers after that for nearly ten years. Friendships, John figured, were only built to weather so much.

The call came on John's birthday. "Happy Birthday, John dear!" Many wishes, warmest regards, and then: "We thought it be great if you and your mum could make it to our cabin this summer, to spend a week or two with us? Just like old times, good boy! Let me know, a'ight?"

And so, John was twenty-two and Sherlock was seventeen when they next met. It was an absurd summer for everyone else: John's mum and Violet Holmes had precious little to gossip about, John's pap drunk himself to within an inch of death every night and Mycroft was so bored he taught himself Russian in those fourteen days.

John and Sherlock, however, seemed to be having the time of their lives.

Well, John at least was. Every trip to the store with the younger boy was fascinating. Every dinner at a hot dog joint, every walk around the park and the town square and the multiple shirt boutiques Sherlock dragged John into to give him options that suited him better than _those goddamn Christmas jumpers_. John didn't bother telling Sherlock that those jumpers were the only things left that would once belong to his grandpa and he wouldn't stop wearing them for the world if it came to it.

John just really loved hearing Sherlock talk.

And boy, did he talk. He had something to say about everything and a great deal to say about nothing as well. Sherlock could deduce everything about a person before they said a word to him, and even more after they did. Sherlock knew the right places to go for the right things and while Sherlock introduced John to everyone as his _acquaintance,_ John was happy to just be in the boy's presence.

It just so happened that on the last day of John's stay, the boys found themselves on the freshly painted tiles of the roof of Sherlock's cabin after dinner, looking up at the night sky like it was the most brilliant piece of artwork there was to adore. Sherlock, John was sure, knew all the constellations by heart.

"They think you're a prick, you know," remarked John casually. He was thinking about the incident at dinner when Sherlock had pointed out tartly that his mum shouldn't have invited the Watsons to their cabin for summer if she knew it was going to be this awkward. John had tried not to take the statement too personally.

"I _am_ a prick," said Sherlock dismissively, the collar of his coat turned up against the warm air. Sherlock, John deduced, liked to feel cold.

"No, you're not," John protested reflexively. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock glance at him, amusement painted vaguely across his features.

"I am, John. I hear everyone talk. Mycroft's the genius, I'm the sociopath." An emotionless tone, something John would expect from Sherlock.

"You know that's not true, Sherlock," pacified John.

"Oh, but it is," Sherlock chuckled. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath, though, they got that part wrong." Of course Sherlock found a way to turn it around in his favour. "And you have no idea how glad I am to be one, John, how do you people survive?"

"What - ?"

"In your stupid little brains, with your stupid little thoughts and misplaced perceptions and wrong beliefs in what is of little importance."

"You hardly get to insult me!" said John, affronted.

"I'm not _insulting_ you, John. Aren't you glad to be who you are? You're not a sociopath, hidden in the shadow of a genius who'll always be one step ahead."

"It sounds like there's a storm brewing in your head, Sherlock."

John didn't know why he said that, and the moment the words are out he wants to take them back. He isn't sure why he wants that, either. All he knows is that Sherlock goes uncharacteristically quiet and all he can hear is the crickets cricketing and the wind winding him up so much that he holds his knees against his chest while Sherlock is all sprawled out. And for a moment, he's that fifteen-year-old who wants to spend the rest of his life - no wedding rings inclusive - with the boy next to him.

"It's a hurricane," Sherlock whispered, and John doesn't know what exploded in his stomach although he's pretty sure normal people call them butterflies.

Then there's a longer pause, and John thinks perhaps now is the time to tell him, yes, there could be no better moment as they leave tomorrow morning, and he wants to tell Sherlock above anyone else...

"We should get going - "

"I signed up for boot camp."

"What?"

But John knows he heard him loud and clear. "Boot camp," John repeats, watching rather impatiently as Sherlock grapples with this new fact being tossed at him. "I leave the first week of August."

"That's two weeks away."

"That's fantastic deduction."

Sherlock grins, just for a moment, and John latches onto that image and commits it to memory.

"So you'll be on the field in..."

"A few months. A year, at the most. I'll have to see how it goes."

"But you're _short_."

"Tall enough to make the cut, it turns out."

And then Sherlock's reaching out, and thumping John's shoulder, and they're climbing down the ladder and walking into the house, bidding goodnight, sweet dreams, I'll see you tomorrow morning and then I'll see you never.

c-p-o-e-r-a-g-e-h-j-a-n-d

There's dust, and ash, and screaming soldiers and the pat-pat-pattering of gunshots, or rain, and John can't tell the difference between the enemy and a dear friend. And Sherlock could be thirty or forty or fifty-three, living in a little flat in the core of London, and John would never know, would never see, never touch, never marvel at the high-functioning sociopath ever again...

He will never escape this.

d-n-a-j-h-e-g-a-r-e-o-p-c

He escapes it. A gunshot to the shoulder and a medic is rendered useless, it seems. He returns to London and rents a studio flat and ignores Harry's calls, and mum's and Aunt Violet's, knowing he hears nothing from pap because he's disappointed - a _bullet in the shoulder_ for Christ's sake! He could have removed it out himself.

He suffers what every veteran suffers, and does what every veteran does to escape it: hires a psychiatrist. And as it is with every veteran, the psychiatrist is useless and undeserving of the huge percentage of his pension he wires her every month, yet he keeps going on because she's also the only human contact he gets every week.

He walks with a psychosomatic limp to and from the grocer's, hopping into a taxi to visit the museum once in a while, to remind himself that he had been patriotic and had been discharged with honours, and yet nothing helps because he now has a thirst for adventure that remains unquenched.

And then he bumps into an old friend who takes him to Sherlock, an even older friend it seems, and they go out for tea.

"She told me to get out more," John said with a hollow chuckle, referring to his psychiatrist whose name he can't quite recall.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Sherlock's voice is monotonous and crisp. The collar of his overcoat is turned up and his skin is as pale as ever. While John was out risking his life to save his country, Sherlock Holmes had apparently been entertaining himself with fascinating crimes.

"No," said John, huffing slightly as he moves his right leg. Sherlock rolls his eyes pointedly.

"Oh please, John, I know it doesn't hurt."

John chooses not to reply. He takes a sip from his tea cup and leans back in his chair, his eyes wandering but always returning back to Sherlock. Sherlock, who's staring at him with a silly little incredulous grin on his lips, whose impossibly blue, impossible translucent eyes are even bluer and brighter than they used to be, and John can't help but grin in return. Is this how reunions with old friends feels like? Returning home?

"You're staring," John pointed out playfully.

"I thought I'd never see you again."

John blinked, surprised by the prompt, honest statement. "I thought I'd never see _you_ again."

"And it disturbed me to bits."

John rubbed his nose self-consciously, for Sherlock hadn't stopped staring. "I..."

"You live in a studio apartment, yes?"

John hadn't mentioned it, but of course something about the wrinkle in his trousers and the remainders of breakfast in his breath must have told Sherlock that little bit of information. "Yes."

"Move in with me."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm looking for someone to split the rent with and all the other prospects either want to kill me or are waiting for me to kill them."

John raises his eyebrows. "That's... interesting. Where do you live?"

"Come and see."

It feels like coming home.

<\-->..<..>\--<\-->..<..>\--<..>

And then Sherlock leaves his audible suicide note with John and jumps off the roof of St. Bart's, and John's life is a piece of crumbling facade waiting to be reunited with the ground. And there are words, _oh_ , so many words. I'm sorry for your loss. He was a lovely man, most adored, and his presence will be missed. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

 _But you hated him._ John thinks it over and over again as well wishers embrace him and walk away. _You hated how he knew everything about you, things you didn't want him to know, and the second you had the chance to doubt his credibility, you pounced on it._

They killed him.

Doubt, selfishness, revenge. They killed Sherlock, took away from John the one thing he was living for. The nightmares were back now, more real than ever. _Look up, John, on the rooftop._ The soldier, the civilian, the martyr, the victim. _I'm a fake, John._ The gunshots, like rain, pat-pat-pattering, falling... _Don't fall._ The screams and the cries and holding back, letting go, battling. _It's just a magic trick._ And it felt like coming home. _Don't move, John. Keep your eyes on me._ Come back, come back, come back...

"The stuff you wanted to say but didn't say it, John, say it now."

"I..."

"Don't be afraid, John."

"...can't."

I love you. Always have, always will. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, wedding rings included, but it's okay if that's not what you want because I can do it the other way too. Remain your flatmate, acquaintance, best friend, forever. As long as you're here. As long as you can be here. Come back, come back, come back...

(......)(.....)(....)(...)(..)(.)

And then he meets Mary, and it's pleasant and comforting, and he buys her a ring and arranges for dinner and the aching hole in his heart is still an aching hole, bleeding and open and aching. But the person it's aching for has left, and so he must move on, even when he can't.

Dinner. And the wine, and the waiter, and wanting to strangle Sherlock because _he's back. The bastard's back,_ he was probably never gone, while John was shaking and crying and limping, dying, wanting. Sherlock was travelling the world, doing his job, not once thinking of John while John spent every moment thinking of him, every night dreaming of him and gunshots and open wounds that will never stop bleeding.

"Fuck you."

Two words, just two words and he wants Sherlock to be gone for good. Yet he's not, because he calls and calls and Mary answers, tells Sherlock how John's been since he came back. And one night Sherlock stops by with Chinese takeaway and asks John if he would kindly accompany him to the park for dinner, please?

"I missed you." That's the first thing Sherlock says when they find a decent bench and settle down. John hasn't opened his carton of noodles yet, because the words have rendered him immobile. "I know that you think I didn't think of you, John, but I did," continues Sherlock. "Every single day, I saw you everywhere and it drove me up the wall. I didn't know it would be that hard, leaving you behind all broken and hurting - "

"I wasn't broken and hurting - "

"Mycroft was keeping his eye on you, John, there's no need to pretend."

There's a pause in which John realizes Sherlock must think of him as a poor whiny overly attached invalid who is incapable of dealing with grief on a mature level, and that thought in itself makes him so angry that his fists shake.

"You don't know how it is," rasps John, looking away from Sherlock. "You were everything, _everything_ , and then you were gone."

"I wasn't everything, John. There were other people who meant more to you than I did."

"No." John's voice is firm when he says this. "There was no one else as important as you, Sherlock."

Sherlock makes a small sound that sounds like _oh,_ or is it _ah_?

"And you had to do it publicly, right Sherlock? You had to leave me that note, feed me lies, and then _fall_ right in front of me, rendering me powerless, so powerless and fucking _pathetic_ , and they shut your eyes and wheeled you away and you were already dead. And I had to choose your headstone and schedule your funeral and stand there while _they_ fed me lies in turn. I spoke to you." John's voice ran dry. He cleared his throat.

"I heard you," says Sherlock, "I was there when you asked for a miracle. And I delivered, didn't I?"

John can't look back at his friend, because he's sure if he does he just might break down.

/.\/.\/.\/.\/.\/.\

John is nearly burnt alive, and Sherlock's heart is in his throat even after he saves John. Sherlock spends that night at 221B Baker Street, over-thinking every last detail that makes John John. There's a rush of affection in his chest as he thinks of John smiling, teasing him, looking at him in awe while he's on a case. John, coming running when Sherlock says there might be danger. John who had to watch as Sherlock pulled off the biggest act he ever had to pull off.

John made him cry.

That was not part of the script. The stray tear that leaked out of his eye, until right after Sherlock 'died' he didn't know where it had come from. Then he had to travel and trim Moriarty's web, and he missed John's quirks and exasperation and determination and his smile, _God,_ his eyes, and he realized that he had to go back. To tell John.

Tell John.

Tell him... what?

I love you. Always have, always will. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, wedding rings included, but it's okay if that's not what you want because I can do it the other way too. Remain your flatmate, acquaintance, best friend, forever. As long as you're here. As long as you can be here. Come back, come back, come back...

_I heard that._

o-c-o-c-o-c-o-c

There's a bomb on a train and John is panicked. He's walking in circles, tugging at his hair, staring out at the railway tracks, staring at his reflection and then staring at Sherlock who's lost in his mind palace, searching and searching.

_And this is not how he wants to die._

"I forgive you." The words fly out of John's mouth because he can't hold them in any longer. Sherlock's eyes fly open as he's wrenched out from his mind palace, and he studies John calculatingly. "I forgive you," repeats John, "For the whole I-died-but-then-I-didn't shenanigan."

Sherlock chuckles, and then he grows serious. "John," he says, and his voice is soft and there are the goddamn butterflies again. Sherlock stands up and approached John, and he's taller than him, casting a shadow over John's face as he blocks the light from his view and suddenly all John can see is Sherlock, Sherlock's hair and his eyes and his dimples and freckles and crevices and Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

"I'm sorry."

And John opens his mouth to say something, what, he's not sure, but instead is struck by a brilliant idea, a better one, a more appealing one, and presses his lips to Sherlock's.

Sherlock makes a small noise with his mouth - this time it's definitely an _oh_ \- as John positively attacks his lips and devours them, leaving the two of them speechless as they battle for tongue and breath and _more._ There's a hand against John's back that's pulling him closer to Sherlock's chest and he's never fit anywhere else as perfectly, and once again he thinks of spending the rest of his life with this man, _wedding rings included,_ because John Watson is _not gay_ but either he wants to murder Sherlock or make love to him and he wants to feel this way for the rest of his life.

Sherlock pulls away and whispers, "There was an off switch," and in a heartbeat John's back to wanting to murder him.

u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i

There are fairy lights and white suits and ring bearers, and everything is perfect.

i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i-u-i

And they go back to the summer cabin, climb up to the rusty tiles of the roof and lean back to watch the stars, the constellations Sherlock has surely memorized by now, even the new ones, especially the new ones. And there's that familiar, endearing awkwardness about the moment that brings a smile to John's lips. Shuffle. Blink. Smile. Shuffle.

"Do you remember when - "

"Yes."

"And I said - "

"Yes."

"And - "

"John."

"Yes?"

"I love you."

And it feels like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment! Send me prompts to ensure I don't run out of ideas! Thank you c:


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